In Order to Erase
by Jehricka
Summary: Arc leads a siege to recover the stolen zeppelin from Westgaurd Keep in the Howling Fjord. Jehri's not so sure she approves of the attack, but can't help going through the motions. What happens when the troops become highly overwhelmed by Alliance?


**A/N**** || OKay, so here's the deal... My guild in WoW, Arc, is a military organization. Every now and then we do IC PvP (Player vs. Player) events. This was one of those times. This was an interesting operation, not only becuase ICly she was critically injured, but the situation was one that would have caused a high internal conflict for Jehricka and I thought it'd be fun to write about it. Names were not changed and are all actual characters/members in the guild. The event was named "Operation Eraser", hence the title. You'll hear talk of the Veil, Blade and... Possibly the Phalanx. Don't remember, but these are disciplines within our guild. The Veil is.... Sneaky-sneakers like rogues and hunters and whatnot and the Blade is the main offensive branch. The Phalanx, for the sake of explaining it, is the main defensive branch. Enjoy ;]**

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The rallying warcry of the Commander sent something sour-tasting from her stomach and up, settling at the back of her throat. Jehri felt her body go rigid and closed her eyes as the salty air blowing from the core of the Frozen Sea tickled her nose and made the taste in her mouth even less desirable. Some knot in her chest told her to leave, but her will to follow her orders and her friends cried out stronger.

She could smell the grease and leather of the mass beside her. She hadn't seen as much as she had just looked in her time standing in formation upon the Blightcaller, but it now occurred to her that she was standing beside Cedar. A smile strained her lips, but she realized without eye contact or any other form of vocalization that the greeting would go unobserved and, ultimately, ignored. She furrowed her brow in frustration, and listened to the sounds of roaring wyvren, turning her eyes over one shoulder as she felted a plated nudge bump against her flame-blackened armor. Thaz'rim peered up at her from behind his faceplate goofily and forced another smile from the Paladine. She moved down the stairs and onto the deck below, nodding to the group of Forsaken huddled on the docks before climbing onto her Windrider's back, kicking his side and taking off after the sea of drakes, beasts, and black-and-navy tabards.

The air higher in the sky was cold. She felt the need to laugh as the Doctor exclaimed the obvious through the gales of wind whipping at her face and stinging the flushed skin, if only for an instant. Were the armor not insulated, she would have weighed the conditions of the situation to be much worse. They waited in silence, she assumed. The wind was growing louder as it shot through the open sides of the chainmail helmet framing her face, making her unable to hear the whispers just overhead between Vaeryx and the since-unnamed and previously non-uniformed soldier.

Finally, she heard the angry and blood lusted yells of the Commander and watched as the Veil swooped towards the zeppelin as it made lazy figure-eights around icebergs and, apparently, pirated warships of the Alliance. It was odd, standing back and watching, she thought. The way the 'soldiers-of-the-shadows' (as she had so affectionately heard the Veil referred to, once) turned and dived in a mostly unintentional formation seemed oddly fascinating.

The group watched and waited in silence, before Wolstenholme rang clearly through her helmet. "Blade! Move in!" He shouted, reverberating against the metal. She had attached to the inside of her helmet the communicator normally slapped around her wrist. As the Blademaster and his group swooped after the zeppelin, she felt the knot in her chest tighten, and had to turn her head, hocking and spitting the taste at the back of her throat out towards the cliff on which Westgaurd Keep was located.

The zeppelin veered one way, then another. Talk of 'controlling that damn thing' and 'just showing off' rang near her ear, but they were empty words, unimportant, and therefore she ignored them. It wasn't long before she heard a "CLEAR!" through the channel of her com, and followed the trail of the Advisor's drake, more out of instinct and habit than anything else. They leered over the zeppelin, waiting for it to dock. She could only compare it to a tiger in Stranglethorn stalking its prey—waiting. Just waiting…

The rest was a blur… She heard orders behind her and in front of her. She saw dwarves at the anvils raising axes and hammers over their head before blood splayed from their chests and body parts were sliced in one swift motion of someone's sword.

Protect Elly—that was as the extent of her own mission, regardless of what everyone was screamed to do. The group consisting of the Commander, the Advisor, Ellorah, herself, Unnamed-and-Non-Uniform, and Ragnas barreled through the guards and towards the tavern. She felt the weight of her mace swing over her shoulder and glide in front of her, smashing the oncoming guards aside. It was so easy, and so quick! Like an arm clearing a table, she noted. The adrenaline fed her mind nonsense, and her mind protested loudly… No, it didn't.

The bloodlust that fed her through battles months and months ago returned. Her body swelled with the thrill of ripping someone's face off with the sharpened prongs of her Ironsoul. Wonderful, she thought. This is what she was made for. This was her as a soldier. She set her foot against the threshold of the tavern.

This wasn't right. She saw the bodies piled against the wood, staining it an awkward crimson, tinged with the sour-yellow of the unstained wood. The adrenaline rushed through her body, pumping her blood faster through her veins. Her ears picked up the sharp rushing of what sounded like water, and realized the journey of blood through her body was louder than the sound of battle outside and the screams of bringing death upon the Alliance echoing through her helmet. She wondered, briefly, if anyone else could hear it. She stepped carefully over the bodies, finding herself highly uncomfortable as the knot in her chest returned and the unused energy caused her to shake and tremble. Her feet carried her towards the stairwell, and she pulled herself slowly up each agonizing step.

The sound of metal footfalls pounded with authority behind her and she pressed the small of her back to the railing, watching as the Commander trudged passed, seeming identify a growl of malice rumbling behind his headwear. She directed her eyes to the first landing of the stairs and her heart stopped a full five seconds as she observed the woman seated at the table located there.

For a moment, she wondered if Wolstenholme had seen her, too. If he hadn't, she was glad. If he had… Why was she still alive? She sat quietly by herself, a mask fastened around her eyes and nose. She looked like a masquerade-goer, minus the extravagant attire. A rogue, perhaps, Jehri thought.

"Jehricka! On me!" She blinked, lifting the haze around her and pulled herself up the remaining steps behind the Commander. She tried to make haste, but the muscles in her legs weren't responding well. She heard him say something about books to transcribe, and nodded dumbly, rounding the corner to the second floor's patio. She spied a bookcase and guided a hand lazily against the spines, which glittered in the gold of title-text. Nothing of interest—no battle plans, or journals of soldiers, if that's what he was looking for.

Ellorah's padded footsteps came into earshot and she turned on her heel, watching as assorted, minute snacks were drenched in the odorless, tasteless liquid from a flask on the warlock's hip. Finally, Jehri shook her head and moved back down the steps, through the throng of escorts to the Baroness. Her feet hit the main floor of the inn, just in time to see the human rogue making her way outside. The woman turned, the truesilver glow from the eyes of her mask met the cerulean-azure glow of Jehri's. She closed her eyes, mouth expressing neutrality as she bowed her head. Jehri returned the gesture, and received a small smile in return. As the rogue left the inn, Jehri knelt before the innkeeper—which she only assumed by her attire—no older than her late teens or early twenties in human years. She was a civilian, Jehri thought as she laid a hand against the girl's forehead. Her lips moved to the words of a silent prayer, eyes closed and brows furrowed. She realized in the brief exchange of nods, and the smile that had resulted, something had happened. Jehri felt the knot in her chest loosen as the effect of the seemingly meaningless gesture took its hold on her. It did something to her—but it was a feeling she could not yet recognize. But with all she was, as she rose to her feet, she wished that her comrades could feel it, too.

Somehow, her feet had carried her outside again and, as she looked around, it seemed it was where she was supposed to be. She followed her group up the hill, and heard the familiar sound of charging suits of armor. The top of the incline shimmered with blue and gold, mostly in the banners the white-clad soldiers carried. The rush came so suddenly that it seemed not even the Commander had been ready for it.

The blurring sequence of another insignificant battle melted into all the others she'd fought before. Weapons and blood, the familiar ringing of steel against armor, and the numb feeling of sending a nameless face—so much less important than herself—to the winter-hard ground of the Frozen Wastes, dead.

As valiantly as they fought, the Keep's reinforcements had come in buckets and Arc in only handfuls. The group found themselves quite overwhelmed, and quite quickly. The soldier that brought the serrated blade of his ax through her shoulder would not get the scream of pain to satisfy is war-hungry heart.

Even to Jehri's quiet surprise, the scream that exploded in her chest caught in her throat. As the blade was wiggled in the fissure, it ground against her bone. She tried to scream this time, but it would not come out for her, sending a pathetic whimper in its place. As the ax ripped upwards, she feared it would bring her entire arm with it. There was a moment of relief when it stayed beside her, the wound burning like fire. She could not see the damage done, but she saw the slice in her armor and felt the blood seep into the insulation, some trailing hot, slick paths down the length of her arm. The relief changed to a flaring anger in the pit of her stomach as tobacco-stained saliva splattered against her cheek and a heavily-loaded Common word fell from the soldier's mouth. Jehri knew that word; 'Traitor'. She also knew this face, but she couldn't place where from. One thing she did know was that she wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, and push his nose through the back of his skull with her fist. She wondered how long she lay on the ground amongst her comrades, simply hating him before an arrow soared over her head and pierced through the soldier's neck.

There were orders to help the wounded, and to return to the zeppelin echoing around her. A hand gripped her uninjured arm (which she was silently thankful for) and she muttered to the gauntlet that she didn't need any help. Her hand wiped the spit from her face in disgust before she moved towards the docks on the other end of the Keep. She climbed onto the Goblin-constructed craft and yanked off her helm, dropping to a sit beside the large, white bear-form of Torben Wildmane. She ground her jaw back and forth in its joint and turned, looking at the penetrated spaulder again. She stared at it for a long while until the Commander urged everyone to regroup at the Blightcaller. She let out a sharp whistle and watched Thaz'rim soar onto the deck of the zeppelin. She mounted and let him drift away from the craft.

He was started by the rusted proto-drake blocking their path to the rest of the group. Jehri stared at the rider, briefly wondering exactly how long Vaemontrial had been present. Her grasp on the situation was slipping. She couldn't focus her vision or hear the soft-spoken soldier against the winds with much efficiency. Something about an "interesting operation" tickled her brain. "Indeed," was the neutral response. She tried to smile for him as she insisted that she meet up with the others, but her lips only formed a tight line and pressed against her teeth. With that, she urged Thaz'rim on, leaving the tiny, coppery and strong scent of blood in her wake.

As she landed on the deck of the boat, her world spun rapidly. She clamped her right hand against her head and leaned her weight into Thaz'rim upper back. The sound of Wolstenholme's voice from not-too-faraway slowly reeled her back into herself and she climbed off of the windrider's back. Something faint echoed in her head—a familiar voice the sounded concerned, worried, and perhaps shaken. She assured the interrogating voice that she was alright, that nothing was wrong and she certainly didn't need to rest. With that, she moved slowly up the rickety steps of the Blightcaller and inhaled the smell of grease again. She was in the place she'd been just a few hours before, and this time she felt the dull nudge of a muzzle against her limp left hand. Her face paled and she fought back the cry of pain in her throat as the arm swung against the force of the nudge. It tore at the already sliced skin and ground the broken bone against itself, prodding at the muscles and tissues that were actually left.

Her eyes were unfocused, barely making out the rounded pauldrons of the Advisor, the threatening ax of the Commander and the crow-like attire of Ellorah. They drifted to the helm and watch the wheel lazily rock back and forth, back and forth. She became suddenly aware of the swell beneath the boat, tilting it one way and the other. The paleness of her face was replaced with a green, sickening colour. Her ears stood on end as she tried to fight down the vomit in her throat, trying to listen to the speech being given at the same time. It was futile, she finally decided, and furrowed her brows, eyes squeezing as she pursed her lips, tasting the sick-sour taste against her tongue.

"Seigebreaker. Head below deck and have someone tend to you," barked Wolstenholme.

Her eyes fluttered open dizzily. She was, by no means, prepared for the rush of colour to her eyes, nor the lights from the lamps dangling from the mast. It took a long while for the words to twist and form into something actually meaningful. The time that it had taken actually worried Jehri beyond all reason. She could feel her ability to stand failing as the formation broke and the soldiers moved into groups, chattering and hollering in victory as the engine of the zeppelin filled her eardrums deafeningly.

"…Below deck," she grumbled. "…Go below deck." Her feet turned slowly, spinning her around on one heel. As she took a step forward, she felt the weight of gravity knock the wind from her lungs, and the searing pain of her shoulder's wound course through her body. It poisoned her brain with thoughts of immobility and unconsciousness, which she succumbed to as if the riches of the world had been thrown at her feet.

As her eyes rolled back into her head, she caught a glimpse of the stairwell and the deck below. Her body had pitched itself forward and sent her tumbling and slamming against the wood. The last thing she felt was the crunching of her shoulder's ball joint against the severed socket and the pain that was so strong she almost couldn't identify it—it just didn't seem real. Her last thought was of the soldier who'd said the word 'traitor' like an unforgivable slur, and of the Innkeeper lying sprawled upon the ground. She heaved in a long, chattering breath as her body dropped in temperature and a sweat broke out against her skin. The sound of ambiguous footfalls and a soft but instructive voice tickled her ears and her brain, but couldn't shake away the way the soldier's lips moved against yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth as he spat the word at her. She felt, briefly, weightless, and then heavy again. What felt like someone's shoulder dug into her stomach as she watched the blurred grey-tinted deck zone in and out of her blurred and unclear vision.

_What have you done..?_

Her eyes slid closed once more, black and silence filling the world outside, while her mind tore viciously at her imagination in a fitful, pained unconsciousness.

**A/N**** || Possibly one of my favourite stories to date. I spent a good deal of time on this one. Feedback's nice. Let me know if I made a mistake anywhere, and I know I probably did. I'm a terrible editor. Any questions can be posted in the reviews, and I'll answer them as best I can. =3**


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